Dead Ringer (19 page)

She started in with her verbal complaints again mere seconds later, but I tuned her out as I spotted Reverend McAllister descending the stairway to my left.

I intercepted him at the bottom of the stairs. “Evening, Reverend.”

He seemed surprised to see me. Possibly nervous as well, although I wasn't positive about that.

“Evening. Ms. Bishop, isn't it?”

“That's right.” I nodded in the direction of the cordoned-­off hallway. “Is the damage extensive?”

“Oh, well, yes and no. The washroom was completely destroyed, but aside from some minor smoke damage out in the hallway, the rest of the church is fine.” He flicked his eyes heavenward. “Thank the Lord.” He refocused on me. “Weren't you one of the women trapped in the fire?”

“Yes. Along with a cellist from the youth orchestra.”

I watched closely for his reaction to my mention of Susannah, but the small crowd outside the nave had drawn his attention away from me.

“Hmm. Yes. I'm glad you're all right,” he said, his distraction leeching any sincerity out of his words.

“Reverend.” I stopped him as he moved to abandon me for the redhead and what I guessed was her extended family.

His eyes slid back to me, but not without a good deal of reluctance.

“Were you aware that Jeremy Ralston was a blackmailer?”

McAllister's eyes nearly popped out of his head and he sputtered for a moment before echoing my last word. “Blackmailer?”

“That's right.” I watched him closely, noting the flush rising up his neck and into his cheeks. “You weren't aware of that?”

McAllister swallowed hard. “Of course I wasn't aware of that.” He tugged at his clerical collar as if he couldn't get enough air. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a wedding rehearsal to attend to.”

He hurried off toward the nave with what I thought was far too much eagerness, considering the way the redhead was throwing her hands about and squawking at everyone around her. He didn't enjoy talking to me. That much was clear.

Something else was clear too.

Reverend McAllister had lied to me.

 

Chapter 20

I
WOULD BET
my beloved violin that McAllister knew full well that Jeremy was a blackmailer. Although I was less certain about how he'd come to know that, I was still fairly sure he'd found out by falling victim to one of Jeremy's blackmailing schemes. I would bet my bow on that one.

I needed to find proof, though. If I could find some evidence that Jeremy had demanded money from McAllister in exchange for keeping Susannah's video a secret, I'd be able to establish the reverend's motive for committing both the murder and the arson. Maybe for one or more of the break-­ins as well. After all, it was possible that the reverend had hoped to find and destroy any evidence of the fact that Jeremy had blackmailed him.

I knew that my theory about the reverend didn't take into account that the police had caught Ray red-­handed trying to break into Jeremy's basement suite. If, in fact, it was Ray who was in custody. But I had to focus on one thing at a time, or I'd never get anywhere.

A man and woman in their early thirties burst into the church, two little kids with tearstained faces in tow.

The woman with the garish red hair threw up her hands and exclaimed, “Finally!”

She raved on at the harried ­couple, but somehow McAllister managed to usher everyone into the nave. The doors closed behind them, cutting off the redhead's rant, and all I could hear then were the far-­off strains from the orchestra.

I tugged at my earlobe. I knew what I wanted to do but I wasn't sure if I should actually go through with it. In the end, I didn't hesitate for long. With a quick glance around me, I scooted up the stairs in a light-­footed dash, the red carpeting helping to muffle my footfalls.

At the top of the stairway I paused and peeked around the corner into the hallway. Aside from me, it appeared that there was nothing on the second story but dust motes drifting in a lazy pattern through a shaft of evening sunlight in an open doorway. I could no longer hear the orchestra playing below, and thick silence was hanging in the air around me.

I left the red-­carpeted stairs behind and crept along the hardwood floors of the hallway. I cringed as a floorboard creaked beneath my feet but kept moving. When I reached the half-­open door of McAllister's office, I peered around the door frame. The room was empty except for more dust motes moving in a slow swirl through the sunlight. The door to the office across the hall was closed, but a quick glimpse through the small window near the top of the door revealed that the second room was as empty as the first.

So far the coast was clear.

I backtracked down the hallway and checked out the two meeting rooms. Both empty. I had the second floor to myself.

I didn't let myself hesitate again. I knew if I did I might chicken out. And if I chickened out, I had no chance of finding out more about McAllister. That wasn't an option. I wanted answers. I needed answers. Otherwise I might never feel safe in my own home again.

Still careful to walk quietly, even though I was alone, I returned to McAllister's office and eased the door open a few more inches. When I stepped over the threshold, the thick silence pressed down around me and I found myself even trying to breathe quietly.

After a mental shake, I forced myself to move with less care. If I didn't want to get caught snooping I needed to hurry, and holding my breath and tiptoeing around wouldn't help me with that.

I targeted McAllister's desk first. I set down my belongings, lowered myself into his aging, black leather swivel chair, and surveyed the scene in front of me. The jar of candies on his desk tempted me, but I wasn't there for snacking and resisted the urge to help myself. Besides, taking a candy would somehow make me feel even guiltier than I already did for poking around the office uninvited. The candies were there for visitors but, I guessed, not clandestine visitors like me. I might be a snoop, but I wasn't a thief. Not even a candy thief.

Now that I was at the desk, I heard something besides ringing silence—­the hum of McAllister's computer. I switched on the flat-­screen monitor and wiggled the mouse. The computer chugged for a second and then woke from its slumber. The reverend had left his desk in the midst of composing an e-­mail. The address and subject lines were empty but the message box contained a partial message.

I glanced at the open office door to ensure that I was still alone and then riveted my eyes on the screen. As I read the message, my eyebrows rose and my eyes widened.

Adam, I appreciate your discretion in this matter. As I'm sure you understand, the missing funds concern me deeply. Honesty and trust are such important facets of our community that a breach of those virtues would have repercussions
far beyond the financial. As much as I don't want to believe that someone I trust and care for could betray not only me but the church as well, I must. . .

That's where the message ended.

I sat back in the chair, staring at the highlighted dust motes without seeing them. Missing funds. Missing from where? The church bank account? The donation box? Somewhere else?

I didn't know and the unfinished message didn't provide me with any clues.

Did the threat to frame Susannah as a thief have to do with these same missing funds?

That was highly possible.

I wondered if McAllister knew who was responsible for the missing money. Clearly he was aware that it was someone from within the church community, and that made sense if the funds were connected to the church. But did he know exactly who was responsible, and did any of this have any bearing on the other recent crimes?

I had no idea.

I wondered if he were responsible for the theft himself. How else could he hope to frame Susannah? Unless the threat was an empty one, or someone other than the reverend had sent Susannah the message.

I returned my attention to the computer and accessed McAllister's Internet browsing history. Over the past week he'd visited various sites related to charities, Chris­tian­ity, and fly fishing, but none that would in any way link him to Jeremy's murder.

I didn't really expect to find that he'd checked out Web sites on how to murder someone, or how to start a fire in a church washroom, but that would have helped me tie things together. Even if McAllister—­or whoever the murderer was—­lacked enough sense to leave evidence of such searches on his computer, I suspected that the murder and arson were more crimes of opportunity than crimes that had been carefully planned beforehand.

I shut off the computer monitor and used one foot to propel the swivel chair in a slow circle, checking out the entire office. Books lined the built-­in shelves, and the few knickknacks present were free of dust. Two potted plants that I had no hope of identifying brought some life to the room, thriving under someone's careful care.

A crucifix hung on one wall, and the opposite wall featured a framed oil painting of baby Jesus in the arms of the Virgin Mary. Aside from the jar of candies and the computer, the surface of McAllister's desk was home to a tray filled with three pieces of snail mail, a pencil holder containing several writing implements, a stapler, a sharp letter opener shaped like a miniature sword, and a framed family photo.

I leaned forward to peer more closely at the letter opener, but didn't give it more than a second or two of attention. If Jeremy had been stabbed and the murder weapon had been missing from the scene of the crime, the item would have held my interest. But as he had died by strangulation, I moved on.

I picked up the family photo and studied it. It showed McAllister with one arm around his wife, Cindy, and his free hand resting on the shoulder of a young man I presumed was their son. Cindy had her free hand on the shoulder of a second son, slightly younger than the first. I estimated both young men to be in their early twenties. The photograph suggested they were a perfect, happy family. Perhaps that was even the case, but I had my doubts.

Approaching footsteps put an abrupt end to my musings. Alarm charged through my bloodstream like a locomotive racing at full speed. My heart pounding out an overzealous beat, I swept my shoulder bag and violin case up off the floor and dashed toward the office door. I halted as I reached the threshold, almost skidding to a stop.

Whoever was out there had already reached the top of the stairs and entered the hallway. I didn't have a chance of slipping out of the office unseen, so I scurried behind the open door and pressed my back against the wall, hugging my bag and instrument case to my chest. I all but held my breath, straining to follow the movement of the footsteps over the almost-­deafening beat of my freaking out heart.

The creator of the footsteps drew closer to the office, each clunk of shoe against wooden floorboard increasing my dread.

I closed my eyes.

Please don't come in here. Please don't come in here.

I had no idea how to explain my presence if someone caught me in McAllister's office. I could say I'd dropped by to see if the reverend was present, but that would only hold up if the person who found me didn't check with him and discover that I knew full well he was tied up with the wedding rehearsal. Besides, whoever found me was bound to be suspicious, what with me hiding behind the office door, guilt written across my face.

The footsteps paused just short of McAllister's office, and I opened my eyes, cautious hope lowering my heart rate a notch or two. Across the hall a doorknob turned and then hinges squeaked with a quiet protest. Four more footfalls sounded against the aging hardwood and the door closed.

I held my breath. I detected a few more footsteps, but they were muffled now. Whoever had been out in the hallway had entered the other office.

I exhaled and nearly went light-­headed with relief. Or perhaps the light-­headed sensation was from holding my breath. Either way, I didn't let it slow me down. I slipped out of the office and made a rushed but near-­silent escape down the stairs. I didn't pause even for a second, continuing on through the narthex and straight out the church's main doors.

I made a beeline for the nearest bus stop, my heart still lub-­dubbing in my chest with greater speed and force than normal. It wasn't so much that someone had nearly caught me where I didn't belong that had me worked up and on edge.

No, it was more the result of what I'd seen as I fled from my hiding spot.

Hanging on a hook on the back of Reverend McAllister's office door was a black hoodie sweatshirt with white lettering on the hood.

“JT!”

I burst into the house through the front door, nearly tripping myself in my haste. I staggered to one side but managed to avoid falling flat on my face in the foyer.

JT's voice floated along the hallway toward me. “I'm out back.”

I dumped my violin and bag in my studio and rushed toward the back of the house, Finnegan trotting up to meet me. I gave him a quick scratch on the head but kept moving. As I reached the kitchen, the rumble of additional male voices alerted me to the fact that JT wasn't alone out in the yard. I stepped out onto the porch and stopped.

Right. It was Tuesday night. Band night.

Every Tuesday, JT and the three other members of his band got together to practice and enjoy a beer afterward. I'd caught them in the midst of the latter ritual.

“Hey, Midori.” Hamish, a guitarist, grinned at me from his Adirondack chair. “You sound kinda anxious to see JT. Miss him or something?”

I was used to Hamish's teasing and ignored him, aside from sending a glare his way.

“Everything okay?” JT asked. He too lounged in an Adirondack chair, a can of beer in one hand.

I squelched my impatience. I wanted to talk to him about what I'd found during my spot of snooping at the church, but I didn't want an audience. Especially one that included Hamish. I knew I'd have to wait until the guys left, even though I didn't want to.

“Everything's fine.” I focused on the only person who hadn't yet spoken, a smile overtaking my impatient scowl. “Hi, Aaron.”

The drummer saluted me with his beer can. “All right?”

My smile broadened at the sound of his British accent. It sounded as dreamy as he looked, with his rich brown skin and dimples that always made an appearance when he smiled.

“Yes, thanks.”

He flashed that dimpled smile at me then, and I forgot my annoyance at having to wait to speak to JT alone. Aaron was the newest member of the band, and this was only the third time I'd met him. Whenever he spoke to me or brought out that smile of his, my stomach flip-­flopped in a giddy, pleasant way.

“Why don't you grab yourself something to drink and join us?” JT suggested.

I did just that, fetching a can of root beer from the fridge. My choice of beverage earned me a comment from Hamish about not being able to handle the real thing, but I simply said, “Shut up, Hamish,” and settled into the empty chair next to Aaron.

“Rafael's not here tonight?” I asked, noting the absence of the fourth band member.

“And good thing,” Hamish said.

“He's got the flu,” JT explained.

I made a face. “Poor guy.”

After taking a long drink of my root beer, I asked about the songs the guys had worked on that night. We talked about their music for a half hour or so as darkness took a stronger hold around us. Moths danced in the yellow glow of the porch light, and crickets chirped in the shadows. The air cooled and I was ready to go inside to seek some warmth when the guys broke up the gathering.

I lingered in the kitchen while JT walked to the front door with his bandmates. At least, I thought all three of them had gone down the hall, but Aaron surprised me by popping his head back into the kitchen.

“Midori?”

I tossed my empty root beer can in the recycling bin and faced him.

“Do you want to grab a bite to eat next weekend?”

My heart danced a little jig in my chest. Despite that, I opened my mouth to turn him down, to tell him I was already seeing someone. But then I remembered that I wasn't. Hans and I were finished.